


Painted Lips

by pluto



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: sizeofthatthing, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy surprises the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sizeofthatthing, prompt Dubcon bj, with Lucy in control for once.

"Harry," Lucy says, "You look tired. You should sit down."

She's right, the Master discovers, he _is_ tired. He's had a busy day: burning Japan, vetting the latest broadcasts, suffering the reports of Martha Jones' latest escapes, tormenting the Doctor. He drops into the leather armchair he had custom-made for himself and sighs appreciatively as her hands slide over his shoulders, massaging them. She has very nice hands, for a human, quite competent hands. Not as good as that pretty young thing his men brought up to the Valiant yesterday--ohh, her hands were _nice,_ whatever her name was--but nice enough.

Lucy's hands slip away from his shoulders and find the knot of his tie; he glimpses her red painted nails as he looks down, sees her loosening it. Smells her human need, overwarm and musky under her cloying perfume. He considers playing--that's how he thinks of it, _playing_, because it's nothing compared to the intense meeting of Time Lords (those few who still indulge, boring somber twats), minds as well as bodies tangling, four hearts hammering, maddening even without the Master's drums.

He decides he's not in the mood, and reaches up to push Lucy's hands away.

"I'm tired," he tells her, mock-patiently, as if she's a child pestering her weary father. "Why don't you run along and get into bed? I'll join you shortly."

He feels her move away and lets out a long sigh, tipping his head back against the back of the chair. In the back of his mind the drums are distant, soft, almost at peace. It's been a good day. When Lucy's got the bed nice and pleasantly warm with her human body heat, he'll creep in, have a lie down, dream of what he might do tomorrow to break that goddamn stoic mask of the Doctor's...

The Master is jerked out of his pleasant reverie by a tug at his groin. His eyes fly open; he sees Lucy, on her knees in front of him, her red-nailed fingers easing the zipper on his trousers down.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, starting to stand, his arm jerking back to strike her away. But she's quick when she wants to be, his Lucy; her pretty little clever hand dips into his fly, grasps hold of his soft cock and squeezes. Gently at first, but the pressure increases, and then becomes a threat. Never quite achieving pain, but promising it all the same.

The Master freezes. His eyes hood.

"Clever girl," he says softly, his tone implying the opposite. "Now what are you going to do? Because once you let go--"

Lucy looks up at him with her wide, doe eyes. She isn't smiling. The Master is disturbed; he wants to see her insipid, dreamy smile more than anything all of a sudden. He feels the hard edges of her nails against the too-sensitive skin of his dick and holds his breath. The drums grow aggravatingly louder when he does that. He thinks she must know it, the way she seems to be devouring his expression. Maybe he's taught her too well.

She moves, spreading his fly with the fingers of her other hand, dragging his cock out into the open air. She leans forward over his soft flesh. Her red-painted lips part. Her eyes never leave his face.

She will bite him, he's suddenly sure of it. He reaches for her, to stop her--she is a human, a weak female, a little girl and he's _the Master_, he'll grab her, throw her aside, break her, teach her a lesson--but her fingers twitch towards a fist around his prick and he freezes again.

"Lucy." He drags out the sibilant sound of the 'c' in her name, turning it hostile. "Don't you dare--"

She lowers her head, her loose golden curls tumbling around her pale face, her rosy lips opening. She _is_ beautiful, his Lucy. He holds his breath as the tip of him enters her mouth, feels her warm damp breath wash over him.

Then, contact: soft wet skin, the flash of tongue, and the tightness of her lips closing around him. He groans despite himself, feels all the blood in his brain take a sudden downwards plunge. He swells inside of her, grows and stiffens and oh, she's good, sucking him down, down, down, down into her. As she swallows him, one of her little hands slides to the base of him, wrapping thumb and two fingers tightly around him; the other cups his balls, tugs gently at them, strokes his tightening skin. She knows him too well, he thinks; only because he let her, of course, but still too well.

Her head bobs as she moves over him. One lock of her golden hair slides slowly off her bare shoulder as his brain melts under the onslaught of her amazing mouth. As she draws back, he sees her lipstick on the base of his cock; he shudders, pleased by the obscenity of it. Her lips slip almost all the way free of him and her tongue flicks the underside of his cockhead, makes him jerk his hips and shout, his fingers digging into the armrests of the chair. For one bright, agonizing moment the air is cold against his damp skin before she takes him inside her again, into her hot, hot wet mouth, her tight throat, with one quick, almost violent motion. His head slams back against fine leather and his eyes slip shut.

"Lucy." He says her name again, but this time it's greedy and full of want. He moves a hand into her hair, commands her through his clenched teeth. "Make me come."

But suddenly all the warmth is gone. Suddenly Lucy releases him with everything but her one hand tightly ringed around the base of his dick. He opens his eyes to see her staring up at him darkly. She speaks for the first time since beginning this:

"You'll come when _I_ want you to, this time, Harry."

Lucy's painted mouth curves, just a little, before she begins her sweet torment again, and the Master wonders how he ever thought her smile soft and stupid.


End file.
